A late fantasy of snow,
the landscape stale and dripping.
A delicate shade of undertone
drifts from here to the village.
where the churches are hopeful
despite the lack of evidence.
We don’t have to shovel the drive.
Warmish rain will erase our tracks
and muddle the larger textures.
Who will apologize first? I dreamt
that my crimes exposed themselves
as paintings hung on varnished walls,
nudes lounging in classical poses.
But you’ve never sinned enough
to join that stuffy club where
those paintings hang unnoticed
as elderly legacies doze over gin
and tonic, muttering in their sleep.
Don’t listen to the snow melt.
That dirty little sound is crueler
than the whispers in the clubroom,
even if livelier and fresh.